


There is No Such Thing as a Good Knight.

by Dark_at_Noon (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, M/M, Major Character Injury, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Dark_at_Noon
Summary: Jaime Lannister slits Ned Stark's throat on the streets of Kings Landing. The world changes.* * *Faced with threats from North and South, an injured and tired Robb Stark I struggles to make the changes to save his people. In Kings Landing, Stannis Baratheon rules in all but name, Petyr Baelish sits the throne in the Eyrie and Dorne is obliterated by the Pisswater Prince and the Mad Dragon.





	1. Good King Robert

The air outside smells like ozone and the lingering stench of the smallfolk in Flea Bottom. The council is full to bursting, with even Tywin Lannister claiming a seat. He sits as though he were a king, Robert thinks bitterly. For all I’ve done, he might as well be. Next to Tywin, Cersei stands half-veiled in the shadows, her face a barely concealed mix of anger and hatred. Idly, Robert notices that Petyr Baelish is not in attendance. On the other side of the table, next to Pycelle, sits a girl of barely ten and four. She looks vaguely familiar and smiles at Robert, but he shakes his head. She must remind him of a woman from the war, although which one he’s not quite sure. He has begun to fear that someday he will lie with a whore of his own seed- or worse, the boy will. 

There is a great clanking before the Gold Cloaks bring their prisoner forward, still clothed in the greying remains of his own cloak and bloodied jerkin. Barristan looks almost mournful. 

“Stand, Jaime of House Lannister, before Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

The grey lump stands just as proud and tall as one would expect him to. The boy has always been a fool. Robert watches him look at Cersei and give her a half smile. She must think that he’s going to be freed, he thinks. No stag bows to a lion. 

“You are accused,” continues Barristan, “of the murder of the northern diplomats, including the Lord of Winterfell, Ned Stark.” 

A shocked gasp goes throughout the crowd as if they did not already know what to expect. What had happened. Ned choking on his own blood outside a Flea Bottom whorehouse. Grappling at Littlefinger’s face as he gasped for breath, whores and drunkards gathered around to watch his death rattle. Robert closes his eyes, thinking of Ned at the Eyrie when they were children, dancing around Jon Arryn’s feet.

“And conspiring to kill the previous hand of the King, Jon Arryn.” More gasps. Robert blinks harshly. He hates the council. He hates the crown. He hates his whore wife and his stupid son and her stupid brothers. He wishes he were drunk. He wishes he were ten and six again, in love with a beautiful girl and Ned Stark by his side. Always by his side. 

It is over quickly, after then. Jaime demands trial by combat and is sent to face a Knight from the Vale who rides him down on horseback, caving in his skull with a Morningstar. The people cheer as he chokes to death on his own blood. Ned choked on his own blood. Would the people have cheered for that? Robert has been unable to stomach his old pleasures- wine, food, flesh- since Ned’s death. 

In a moment of weakness, he writes to Stannis and begs him to be his hand, to fill the brotherly void Ned left behind and Renly is seemingly unable to fill. Unbelievably, Stannis comes. It all topples like dominoes then- the Targaryen girl in Essos killed before her son draws his first breath, a Braavosi strangler taking Cersei in the night- he is not willing to admit that he had wept for her just as he had wept for Lyanna. She does not have that power over him. Joffrey goes riding with a Pentoshi friend and comes home as bones. The Imp is thrown from the Eyrie and Tywin Lannister is left to rot away with his gold. 

He takes a new wife. It’s the right thing to do, even though he’s not the kind who ought to have a wife at all. Stannis chooses her from a book of Northern maidens. Arra Umber. She’s barely a woman, but he fucks her anyway. Myrcella looks too much like her mother for him to trust, so he sends her to ward with the Estermonts. Tommen begs for the Sept and he gives in. He has new sons now, black-haired and blue eyed. Ned and Jon and Steffon. Proper, good Baratheon sons. He names his daughter Cassana, even though she never draws a breath. Finally, he thinks. A Baratheon dynasty. 

Five days after they bury Cassana, Viserys and Aegon Targaryen land on Dornish shores.


	2. Threats From the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb can barely stand. Yohn Royce wants war.

“Sunspear has burnt. The Fossoways fell at the Battle of Sandy Fell. The Martell’s are all but gone- Oberyn is all that’s left, for all we know. They have dragons, Robb. Dragons.” Robb straightened up at the words. He looked far too young for the crown and far, far too young to have the battle wary stare of a man thrice his age.

“Are you certain of that? Nobody has had word out of Dorne for months, I don’t believe that-“

“Don’t believe that what? Dorne is either with them or dead. There’s not much to believe. Even my uncles have turned their ships back.” Theon’s voice quavered a bit, before he continued. “There’s some talk that the Wyl’s might be hiding out in those caves of theirs, but the rest of it is just scorched sand.”

The Greatjon grunted. Robb ignored it.

Yohn Royce bristled as he puffed himself up “So? The dragons will turn their eyes to the South next, and they’ll put up a fight. It took them two years to get through Dorne- who says that they’ll not take long in the Stormlands? You’re a foolish boy, Theon Greyjoy. You’d be better off back home with the other squids. You’ve seen what is clambering to get into the city walls. Gods be good, the Dragon Kings will deal with them first.”

And so the argument went on in circles. Theon demanded that they flee or prepare for war, Yohn demanded that they focus on the other threat. Fire and Ice. Ice and Fire.

Robb pinched the bridge of his nose. The headaches had started after the Battle of Last Hearth, when a giant _thing_ had slammed a log into his skull. He’d slept for three weeks, and when he awoke, Theon and Yohn had begun to make demands. Let Theon marry Sansa. Marry Roslin. Write to his mother in the Vale. Build a fleet. Flee Westeros with some good men. Prepare the castle for an invasion from the North. Prepare the castle for an invasion of the South. Even when he gave into their demands, it wasn’t enough.

He stood, awkwardly. His leg still dragged from where the arrow had pierced it in Deepwood Motte. Both men turned to face him. “I tire of this argument. Build your ships. Strengthen your battlements. I care little. Has there been any word from my...” He breathed in deeply, momentarily distracted by the spots in his vision. “Have we had word from my mother in the Vale?”

The Greatjon grunted again, then creaked as he rose. “Aye, m’lord. Lord Baelish has informed us that they will not be able to muster enough men-” He is interrupted by yelling and the clamouring of minor lords and Wildlings. Robb has to steady himself against the table to keep from fainting like a maid on her wedding night. “But,” the Greatjon yelled over the noise, “they are willing to send us some supplies- some ten tonnes of grain and wine.”

Theon’s mouth twisted at the news. Robb had known him for long enough to know that he didn’t find this satisfactory. Robb half agreed with him. They needed the men to deal with the Northern threat. Jon’s last letter from the Wall had noted that the Wildlings offered more than his goodfather was willing to give. They had been fools to accept Baelish’s offer of marriage, and more fools to send his mother there. Now she was marooned, with a traitorous second husband and a child that seemed to scream more than it breathed.

“And from my wife’s husband?” His wife. Robb half suspected she was not long for the world, whereupon Frey’s kindness would run dry. She had lost three children in quick succession, bleeding so greatly each time that the Maester had begged them to stop. Six moons after the third, she still had not recovered and rarely emerged from her bed, lost to the world in a sweet sleep haze. When they had last spoken, she had begged him to come to her and try again. When he had refused, she had shrieked and screamed so loudly that the Maester had to carry her away, an incriminating look blaming Robb for her madness.

“Lord Frey has sent men and his son Rhaegar to lead them, m’lord. Ten thousand men, although most are green boys who can scarcely fight in Summer, let alone in Winter.”

“Dragon fodder?” Asked Theon.

“I suppose so, m’lord.”

Was this so hard for his father? For the thousands of Starks who had preceded him? He almost envied Brandon Stark for choking in Kings Landing. At least he had never had to lead a starving army pinned in on both sides. Robb slumped back down.

“Ten thousand men are better than none. We will speak more on the morrow.”

A chorus of “Aye, m’lords” followed, and then they filed out of the room until it was just him and Theon.

“Are you well, Robb?”

“Do I look ill to you, Lord Greyjoy?” Lately, his answers have become more and more vitriolic, as he loses control of his temper. Grey Wind has become angrier too, pacing the halls and growling at the Riverland soldiers.

“Easy there. You know what I mean.”

“I’ve been better. How is my sister?”

“Turning my words on me won’t help you any. She’s well. She wanted to see you at breakfast.”

“I was busy speaking with Roose Bolton.”

Theon shuddered. “That man is as slimy as a leech. Ten dragons he eats them too.”

“You sicken me. He is our ally, and therefore is deserving of our kindness-”

“He’s a madman who wants to fuck your sister. Don’t play the fool Robb. I know you better than that.” Theon has taken to acting like an older brother again lately, which makes Robb furious.

“And when have you been so protective of Arya?”

“Since Roose Bolton decided that he wanted to fuck her.” Theon shook his head. “I mean it. Playing the honourable fool will get you killed. They’re circling around, waiting for one little slip-”

“I won’t make one little slip.”

“They all think you’ve become a doddering fool,” Theon continued. “Who can’t fuck his wife and won’t take a new one.”

“This isn’t about me being able to fuck that- that madwoman, is it?”

“If you don’t, we’ll lose it all. Ten thousand men is three times how many we have. Even with the men Jon has enlisted-”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to speak about my wife again. One more word and I’ll have Grey Wind rip out your tongue.” Robb meant it as a threat, but it seems to backfire.

Theon grinned at him. “I don’t think your sister would be too happy about that.”

“I don’t give a fuck what my sister is and isn’t happy about. I’ll kill you and marry her off to Smalljon.”

“Will you now, Lord Stark. How very cruel.”

 

“I’ll make Smalljon pretend that he’s the father of your son, too.”

They both laughed. “If Smalljon was Vickon’s father he’d be a lot hairer. A lot uglier too, come to think of it.”

“Better to be ugly and hairy than bald and fat. And he’s your son. He’s destined to be all four of those things.”

Theon frowned. “He’s only three moons old. Gods be good, he’ll just be fat by the time he reaches his majority.”

Robb stood again, slowly this time. “I should hope so. No bald man can lead the North. His ears would freeze and fall off.”

“Aye, you’re right. He’d best grow it out for when he becomes King of the Iron Islands.”

Robb shoved Theon lightly. Theon beamed at him again and then stooped to pick up Robb’s stick for him. “We’d best be going. I left my wife with my fat ugly son and your hairy brother. She’ll have aged seven winters by the time we get back.”

“I do mean it though. We have to be kind to the Frey’s, lest they change their minds about remaining our allies. It’s not like we can just build a new bridge, and we need all the men we can get. The night is long-”

“And full of terrors. I know. I read Jon’s letters too. I think he’s just as mad as you are, you know? You’re a family of madmen. I shudder to think about how your poor mother coped.”

“Better than yours did.” Robb regretted it as soon as he said the words, and the goodwill vanishes for just a second behind Theon’s eyes.

“I have to return to my wife, Lord Stark. Perhaps you and Lady Roslin should sup with us tonight.” Theon turned on his heel and stalked off in the direction of the range instead back to the castle.

Robb watched him disappear, and then turned towards the library. He might not be a particularly learned man, but he did know there were two ways to win a war: fighting and fucking. An army of fifteen thousand wouldn’t win in a fair fight, but the fucking might.

**Author's Note:**

> :o) a product of my rewatch. some short lil stories from in this universe.


End file.
